Eastern Coast of the Pritt Kingdom, outskirts of Tivian. A sudden, violent explosion echoed across the sky from the forest outside Cold Cliff Prison. On the narrow, secluded forest trail, a raging shockwave and searing flames swept outward, engulfing a wide area. Countless towering trees were caught in the blast, and the ground trembled with the impact. When the explosion subsided, the vehicle that had been at the epicenter was completely gone. In its place was a large, blackened crater. Around the crater, trees had been flattened outward in a radial pattern, and the entire scene was left in utter ruin. Just outside the blast radius, in an untouched section of the forest, several figures were gathered behind the cover of a large boulder beneath the shade of the trees. They were watching the explosion site from afar—it was the same "Cold Cliff guards" who had escorted the now-destroyed cart, along with Gregor, who had gone to "pursue" them. Strangely, these supposed pursuers and escapees now stood calmly together, with no signs of conflict between them, all staring solemnly in the direction of the blast. “It’s detonated. I wonder what the outcome is?” “We don’t know yet. We need to confirm. Dead or alive, we need to see the body.” Exchanging glances, the men dressed as prison guards—actually Eight-Spired Nest agents in disguise—spoke in grim tones. As they prepared to move in to investigate the blast site, the leader stopped Gregor from following. “Hold on. You better not go. Just in case, it’s best she doesn’t see you again.” “Hmm… alright.” Gregor nodded in response and stayed behind, silently watching as the others swiftly shed their disguises, donned cloaks, and armed themselves before rushing toward the explosion site. At that moment, in the outer edge of the blast zone, a figure lay in a pool of blood—it was Northbone, still transformed to look like Misha. He had been caught in the explosion, his body scorched and bleeding, skin cracked and split open in numerous places. His face was twisted in agony as he collapsed on the ground. Thanks to reacting just in time and distancing himself slightly before the explosion, Northbone hadn’t been blown to pieces. But the blast had still left him gravely injured. He lay unable to rise, only barely able to drag himself forward. “Ngh… ughhhh!!” Just as the severely wounded Northbone tried to crawl away, a paralyzing, stabbing pain suddenly surged through his entire body. He convulsed and collapsed again, passing out—but after a few seconds, his eyes opened once more. Yet now, the fear they once held was gone, replaced by a calm and indifferent expression. The reawakened “Northbone” struggled to sit up in the blood, gasping as he looked into the distance. What he saw was a group of cloaked, masked men sprinting out from the forest and emerging onto the path. They spotted the injured “Misha” and frowned. “You… cough… who are you?! How dare you—” Northbone choked on blood and shouted at the men. They exchanged glances, and one of them signaled another. The signaled man responded. “Boss, she’s still alive. What now? We were only supposed to extract someone—this one isn’t part of the plan.” “Doesn’t matter. Kill this black dog first, just in case. Better safe than sorry.” With that, the masked men charged forward, weapons raised. Seeing this, Northbone—still bearing Misha’s face—swung an arm, and a gust of wind suddenly whipped through the clearing, forcing the attackers to shield their faces. At the same time, another current of wind lifted Northbone out of the blood pool and swept him away from the immediate danger. “She can still use powers! Don’t let her escape!” one of the men shouted. The masked attackers raised their firearms and fired at the fleeing “Misha.” Amid gunfire and smoke, several bullets struck Northbone, who let out a pained cry as he fell from the air and crashed hard onto the ground. Seeing escape was no longer possible, Northbone—still wearing Misha’s face—was filled with despair. From the ground, he watched his enemies rushing toward him and, with his last ounce of strength, pulled a sigil from his body. The moment they saw it, the masked men became visibly alert. But instead of fighting back, Northbone pressed the sigil to himself and, with a sharp cry, shouted at his pursuers. “I curse you forever! You filthy bastards of the shadows!” He activated the sigil. But it did not empower him. Nor did it create any phenomena to help him escape. Instead, blazing flames erupted from where it had been placed, engulfing him instantly. Within moments, Northbone became a figure of living fire, his screams ringing out from within the inferno. “A Flame-Sacrifice Sigil…” Seeing the scene, the masked men halted. Their leader muttered the words aloud, for he knew exactly what kind of sigil this was. In the dark and brutal world of the mysticism underground, both official and unofficial Beyonders fought viciously in the shadows. In such battles, death wasn’t always the end. The corpses, bones, or even souls of slain Beyonders could be taken as spoils by enemies—used for desecration, puppet-making, or worse. The Flame-Sacrifice Sigil was a desperate tool for preserving dignity—or even one’s soul—in such circumstances. Its function was simple: it could only be activated by someone with no will left to resist. Once triggered, the user’s body would become highly flammable and burn rapidly in seconds—flesh, bones, and all belongings reduced to ash. With the body destroyed, it couldn’t be used for rituals or turned into a puppet. With the bones gone, they couldn’t be crafted into artifacts. Fresh corpses were the best spiritual mediums—without one, summoning the dead soul would be exponentially harder. The destruction of one’s possessions also prevented enemies from seizing powerful loot or confidential intel. For all these reasons, the Flame-Sacrifice Sigil was commonly issued by large mystical organizations—especially official ones—to mid-level officers or those performing high-risk missions, as a last-resort tool for a dignified end. And clearly, in the eyes of these masked men, the one who just burned alive—Northbone, disguised as Misha—had now met such an end. Under the watchful eyes of the few masked Eight-Spired Nest members, the blazing flames quickly consumed everything combustible before dying out, dispersing into wisps of blue-gray smoke. Seeing this, the masked men exchanged glances, nodded silently to one another, then looked back at the chaotic and noisy Cold Cliff Prison in the distance before swiftly retreating from the scene. Once the masked men had withdrawn, high up in the crown of a thick tree, on a branch hidden within the leaves, a royal knight wrapped in a cloak let out a small sigh of relief as she carefully observed the distant situation. Not far from her, a man referred to as “Detective” smiled and spoke up. “They’re gone. Congratulations, Miss Misha. Now, whether in the eyes of the Eight-Spired Nest or the Serenity Bureau… you’re dead. You’re truly free.” With a faint smile, the detective Ed addressed Misha. She glanced toward the distant commotion and quietly asked. “There won’t be any flaws in the act, will there?” “Heh… things have gone this far—there won’t be. We should get moving. Once the prison settles down, someone will come looking. We still have quite a bit of follow-up work to do when we get back.” Still smiling, Ed urged Misha again. She paused briefly before nodding and began her true retreat alongside him. … Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, the few masked Eight-Spired Nest members had retreated to a safe location. Their leader called out a Face-Spider from within his cloak, letting it crawl onto the back of his hand. Staring at the abstract markings on its carapace, he spoke calmly. “The plan was a success. Misha Devonshire has been confirmed dead. We’ve successfully withdrawn. The operation at the prison can now be terminated.” With that, the spider crawled back into his cloak, and the leader led his subordinates away, retreating further from Cold Cliff Prison. … Some time later, on the other side of Tivian’s outskirts—in Gale Fortress, the headquarters of the Serenity Bureau. Inside the fortress’s core, in a spacious and luxuriously decorated office, Harold, dressed in formal attire, sat at his desk, reviewing official documents with full concentration. Suddenly, there was a slightly urgent knock at the door. Hearing it, Harold paused and looked up. “Come in.” As soon as he spoke, the door opened, and a slightly stout man entered quickly, his expression grave as he approached Harold’s desk and began to speak. “Your Highness, something major has happened. There’s been a prisoner riot at Cold Cliff. Someone coordinated an attack from both inside and outside. They even used explosives. Part of the prison wall was blown open, and some prisoners escaped.” “What…?” Harold’s brows furrowed. He set his pen down and looked straight at the man. “Who orchestrated the prison break?” “That’s still unclear. Cold Cliff has taken in a lot of new prisoners lately. The dozen or so who escaped belonged to various societies. For now, we can’t determine who’s behind the attack—it’ll require further investigation. Also… during the outbreak, Lady Misha Devonshire was on-site conducting official duties. But after the riot, she went missing. No one has been able to locate her.” Hearing this, Harold froze. His eyes widened slightly. “Misha… she disappeared? That actually happened?” Just as he tried to say more, Harold’s expression suddenly tightened. A hint of pain flashed across his face. He clutched his forehead, as if enduring some kind of throbbing pain. Seeing this, the man standing before him grew visibly concerned. “What’s wrong, Your Highness? Are you feeling unwell?” “It’s nothing… Just a minor headache. I’ve already had it checked—nothing serious.” Harold replied, then took a sip of tea from the cup beside him and looked back up. “Go. Have Edmond and Duke lead their teams to Cold Cliff. I’ll join them shortly.” “Yes, sir!” Following Harold’s orders, the man quickly left. Harold remained in his seat, still clutching his head, lost in thought. … Elsewhere—on a muddy roadside a considerable distance from Cold Cliff—a black carriage made its way along a rural path. Inside sat Dorothy, now returned to Tivian, remotely overseeing the situation from afar. “The plan went smoothly enough… With a death like that laid out in front of the Eight-Spired Nest, there’s really no room left for doubt. Same physique, clothing, and face as the target. The skin cracking from the blast, the wind-controlling ability, the unyielding attitude… if they still don’t believe it after all that—well, then it’s their own problem.” Sitting in the slightly swaying carriage, Dorothy thought calmly to herself. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on novel•fire.net In this performance she had orchestrated, the actor may have seemed flawless to the audience—but in the end, an actor is still just a performer, not the real thing. The identical appearance and figure came from the substitute’s shape-shifting ability. The cracked skin from injuries came from a Stone-Skin Sigil provided by the real Misha—an item Dorothy had previously seen used in battles against the Eight-Spired Nest. When “Gregor” helped the actor Northbone change into Misha’s clothing, Dorothy had secretly applied a Marionette Mark, allowing her to channel spiritual threads and transmit the sigil’s effects remotely. The wind on-site had come from Misha herself, observing from a distance. The final display of unyielding will had been Dorothy’s own direct manipulation. And the last prop—the Flame-Sacrifice Sigil—had originally belonged to Misha, issued to her by the Bureau. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶 “Swap out a prisoner scheduled for external labor in advance, trigger a riot inside the prison, then have agents launch a direct assault. With the prison’s forces pinned down, they strike at Misha on her return… Heh. The Nest certainly planned this out well. They ensured no one from the inside could support her. And once Misha ‘dies,’ her death would easily be attributed to the riot—making it hard to trace it back to a targeted assassination. A clean way to mislead the Serenity Bureau… “But judging from how they operated, they still fear the Bureau knowing the full truth… Their influence is growing, but it clearly hasn’t reached the point of controlling everything…” As Dorothy continued to reflect, a wave of urgency began to rise in her heart.